Christmas is coming

I used to love the run up to Christmas me, I did. The freezing cold frosty mornings, nose pressed hard against John Menzies front window, gawping at the toys I dreamed of, the sheer excitement and anticipation of what I might get. Playing games during work hours at school, throwing booby trapped snowballs at neighbours windows then fleeing through crunching snow in case they saw me or worse still caught me and gave me a good doing.
Then there was the great day itself; getting up at two in the morning to see if Santa had been, rushing in my mum and dad’s bedroom, without even knocking, heart a pounding and shouting:-

“Look, dad, I got football boots!”

“Urrgh go away, boy.”

“Tam, that’s not nice. Happy Christmas, pet.”

“Happy Christmas mum and dad!.”

“Dad, can you tie them up for me?”

“In the morning son, in the morning.” Dad’s voice was a cross between an android and a bin full of cabbage.

I’d invariably open all the presents at once, ignoring “to” and “from” labels, assuming everything was for me and then gorge myself on tangerines and Texan bars.
Big sis would come in at about 6:00 am then start howling as I’d made such a mess and ruined all her presents.
Undaunted, I’d put on my new Scotland strip and wait for the stone deaf combo of granny and Uncle Angus to come for dinner and Subbuteo. Those were the days. Christmas was all about me and getting; no hassles, no worries.

When I became a married man it all changed. Christmas became a time for running up and down the M6. Oh yes, those futile attempts to keep everyone but me happy. Occasionally, we’d host the event in an effort to resolve this. We’d realise every time that Great Uncle Archibald in Aviemore or Auntie Wendy in Wales hadn’t made it and hoof it up the road again. Arrangements were always a nightmare.
“Awwww, but we went to your parents last year. We’re always going there.”

“No we’re not. Don’t you like my parents?”

“Of course I do. Just think we should go to mine for a change.”

“What do you mean? We’re always seeing your parents.”

She then presents a list of all the times you’ve seen them over the year. As usual, it turns out to be 30 minutes more than she’s seen hers. Therefore, it’s only fair that we go to them for Xmas. As usual you agree as you’ve got other things to think about.

With kids, it’s even harder to please. All want to see them and their look of Christmas wonderment on their expectant chocolate Santa faces. By the end of a Christmas holiday you’re knackered. What’s worse you’ve been forced to take a week off work using precious holiday when the weather is crap. I’d campaigned long and hard for Christmas in summer, so at least you can get out and about in the sun, or even the rain. Failing disastrously with that approach, I decided to shove the job and move the family to Sydney. And so here I am, looking forward to my first hassle-free Christmas in years.

No family, well apart from Jenny’s cousins twenty minutes away but they’re cool as she’s Scottish and he’s got a Blackadder DVD box set. Oh, and her sister is 90 minutes up the motorway but apart from that and their four kids, well and the cousins who’re In Melbourne and Jenny’s Uncle and Auntie who are visiting relations in Canberra, there’s absolutely no one we’re expected to see or places we should be. Bliss. I love Christmas me, I do.

Mind you, it’s pretty weird this hot weather stuff in December. It’s 35 o C here today and everyone’s sweating like a beast, especially Santa. Our local Wahroonga village day had the sweatiest Santa I’d ever seen, even without any scantily clad elves in sight. He could hardly get a Ho ho ho out without dripping buckets. In the end he’d given up both on festive good will and his beard which sagged exponentially with temperature. He grumpily handed out melted lollipops to the kids in between brow mops.
Taking a pause in licking, the ever philosophical William asked, “Is he the real Santa, Daddy?”

I looked swiftly to Jenny to see if I had confirmation to tell white lies. Her eyes nodded.

“Err, no son. Remember, Santa was born in Glasgow. This guy is just one of Santa’s helpers. You know how busy he is. He’s probably in Myers in Sydney right now.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes, son?”

"What does shove it up your ass mean?”

”What! Don’t you ever say that again! Errr, by the way, where did you hear that, son?”

“You know, dad, when Santa was holding the mic on stage then the Town mayor and the policemen took it and helped him to get down. You know, just before he spilled his beer over the speakers and they went all smokey.”


So, there we were wandering about the town centre in shorts and t-shirts, Christmas carols blasting in the background whilst eating ice-creams. Bizarre. And get this, people are hoping for a very hot Christmas. None of this snowy rubbish for them. Makes you wonder though, Bing Crosby could never have cracked Oz with “White Christmas”, could he? It’d be more like “I’m dreaming of a bloody hot Christmas. Just like the one the year before. Where barbies glisten and beer is drunken and birds float round in revealing swimwear.”

I must admit, I’m a bit worried about my first Oz Christmas dinner. Seemingly you can do a full turkey and trimmings, (I’ve even got a dealer who can get me sprouts) but only if you’re nuts. It’s true, traditional Crimbo dinners are only for families who are a sausage short of a six pack or have air conditioning that’s very expensive indeed.

It’s just not the done thing. You’re supposed to have some prawns on the barbie and some fresh fruit. What?!!!! Fresh fruit? Prawns? Are they mad? That’s far too healthy. I want some heavy pudding, I want some turkey. I want some of those sausagey things with bacon wrapped around them and I want stuffing. Actually, a lot of people say that to me. I want the Queen’s speech and I want to be asleep dribbling in my armchair by 4:15 pm clutching a glass of port, wearing my Santa hat at a jaunty angle. I want snow, I want ice, I want misery, I want The Two Ronnies, I want a traffic jam on the M6. I want to see rellies that I don’t want to see.

I want a good old fashioned British Christmas. What am I going to do?